


Deleted Scenes

by bismoran



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 12:38:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8014309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bismoran/pseuds/bismoran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This will be my new place for posting Ascension 'scraps', POVs I didn't use, sections I didn't use, things that ultimately didn't make it into the fic proper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Vignette from the Ball Chapter

**Author's Note:**

> This bit was intended to appear in the chapter with the Ball, from Maric's POV. Originally I intended to have Maric, Loghain, Eamon, Teagan, Fiona, Celia, and Isolde all have POVs in that chapter, but I ultimately decided it was better to have it be entirely women.

At parties, Maric did very little, aside from talking to Loghain. 

Before Rowan died, he was often the life of the party, dancing with her for much of the evening, speaking with nearly everyone. 

But her death had brought melancholy and melancholy brought isolation. 

Parties often overwhelmed him now, even as he was beginning to get better, and Loghain was safe. 

He could not speak with Fiona tonight, even if the two had not had not fought before the ball. It would draw too much suspicion to them. 

Instead, when he was certain no one was looking, he'd check in on her with a glance. 

If she caught his eye and smiled, which she nearly always did, she was fine, and he'd stop worrying for a few minutes.

Celia stood with them. 

She wore a gown of dark blue voided velvet; the velvet itself made of silk, and a white fur wrap to keep her warm. She wore a tiara of white gold and pearls, and diamond drop earrings. She also wore a scowl that matched her husband's as they stood atop the balcony.

Maric was fairly certain her scowl was due to pain, and not displeasure, however.

“Would you like me to fetch a chair, Celia?” Maric offered. 

Celia looked at him with something he could not name, “If...you are willing, my King,” she said softly after a moment. “They are in that room,” she pointed to one of the rooms behind them. The room to the right of the stairs. Maric walked away from the railing, and to the room she'd pointed to. 

He opened a door and pulled out the first chair he could find, and carried it above his head, over to where Celia stood. She sat gingerly down in it, wincing, and after a moment, the scowl had softened a little. 

Loghain had not worn his River Dane armor that night, which Maric found surprising. The clothes Loghain wore somehow reminded him of the leather armor the man had worn as an outlaw, but Maric could not voice how. 

Loghain wore a black tunic that reached his mid thigh, well-fitting and made of silk. It had a surplice neck held closed by satin frogs and a large belt. He wore fine black woolen trousers that fit well too. A pair of black boots that reached his knee. A jerkin of dark grey leather was the only contrast in color. Maric was fairly certain that the clothes had been made just for the ball; he never recalled Loghain wearing them. 

Loghain wore very little jewelry unlike many of the other men, only three rings, one of copper, and two of silver, on his right hand, and one of gold, his wedding band, on his left hand, and a thin, plain silver circlet. 

Maric caught his eye, and the two of them both stepped back a foot or two from the balcony's railing.

“You look handsome,” he teased quietly. 

“You too,” Loghain said, keeping his voice low.

“Celia looks nice,” Maric said. 

Loghain nodded. “She is a beautiful woman,” he agreed. “I am surprised an Alienage tailoress managed to make a dress that fine,” he said, craning his neck to glance down at Fiona now. It was harder where they stood than it was right by the railing. 

“Doesn't she look beautiful?” Maric asked, starting to beam without even thinking about it. “Though I know from experience she could be covered in deep roads grime and I'd still think she's beautiful.” 

Loghain scoffed, but a smirk stayed on his lips. There was silence for a few moments as they moved back towards the railing. 

Loghain leaned with his arms against it. 

“How long do you think until your Elven girl starts an argument with someone?” Celia asked.

Maric paused and thought for a moment, “...Two hours, unless one of the Orlesians or someone with family in the Templars starts talking to her. If that happens, immediately.”

Once most of the guests arrived and the names stopped being called, Celia went downstairs to mingle. 

Loghain and Maric stayed on the balcony a few minutes longer. Talking.

“Are you and Celia okay?” Maric asked, choosing his words carefully. 

“No less so than usual,” Loghain said.

For a few moments they listened as the Bard played an Elven song. If the chorus was anything to go by, it was called 'Vhenan'Ara'. Maric wasn't sure, but he thought it was a love song. He wondered if Fiona knew what it meant. Would it be rude to ask, he wondered. Probably. Better not to.

“Do you think Rowan would- do you think she'd be angry at me for...moving on?”

“Don't be an idiot. She wouldn't want you grieving for the rest of your life. And if you had to pick an Orlesian, especially an elf, at least she has sense.”

Maric smiled a little, still watching Fiona. She was chatting with Lady Aldebrant now. Maric was fairly certain she was the only person he'd seen at an event like this take interest in what the girl had to say. 

“Imagine if I'd fallen for an Orlesian obsessed with the Game and the latest fashions from Val-Royeaux and who's related to whom.”

“I'd assume a demon possessed you and send for some Avvar shaman to get rid of it.” 

“The Orlesian or the demon?”

“Both.”

Maric laughed

After a few more moments on the balcony, Maric drained his glass, and then walked down the stairs for another.

Loghain followed him. 

The pretty elven woman manning the refreshments stood in the doorway that led to the kitchen. It was blocked off by a table, creating something which was sort of, though not quite, a booth.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was another attempt at a Maric POV for the Ball. Again, ultimately, I decided not to go with it.

It was hard to enter the party and separate off from Fiona. Maric, knowing her past, knowing how terrifying this was for her, that she'd rather face death in the deep roads than be at a party with nobles, wanted to spend the entire evening by her side. Even if she didn't need him there, it'd put him at ease. 

Instead, he stood in the northwest corner of the room, where one of the servants had set up a chair for him, and tried very hard to make his glances at Fiona seem subtle. 

Nobles gathered around him of course. Such was to be expected at events like this. 

Eleanor, Loghain, and Bryce, three of them, luckily knew the situation, so during quiet moments, during lulls the conversation, when the bard played a particularly popular song, it was not difficult to catch a glimpse of her.

“Should I rescue her?” Eleanor asked during one such lull. She pointed as subtly as she could to their right. 

Fiona stood, looking radiant in the dim candlelight, clutching a small glass of what looked like vodka had been caught up in a conversation with a Bann from near Redcliffe. Bann Fredrick. The man was known by most nobles to be an exceptionally talented bore. 

He'd attended the university of Orlais shortly after the war, and had become enthralled by accents and the differences in the way people spoke. 

If one could not find an opportunity in which to escape from the conversation, he would spend absolutely hours blathering on about the differences in accents and word choices between those who'd supported the Orlesians, those who'd supported Maric's mother and grandfather and Maric himself, the entirety of the conflict, and


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another Ball chapter, this one from Teagan's POV.

There were three events which took place at the ball that every single person in attendance agrees on:

1) Maric's new adviser was wearing a necklace.  
2) Arl Eamon was certain it was his sister's necklace and that the woman had stolen it. He started to yell at her about it.  
3) A fight began. Who threw the first punch is uncertain, but what is known is that the Mage quickly got the Arl onto the floor without a single spell.  
Aside from that, accounts differ wildly.  
–  
Eamon had two years in Marcher society with their aunt and uncle to attend balls before Ferelden won the war and he became an Arl. He'd been guided by them on the dos and don'ts. He'd learned to dance. He'd learned proper manners. He'd learned courting etiquette. 

But when Ferelden was freed from Orlais' yoke and Teagan became a bann, he'd been barely twelve. 

His sister was too busy running a kingdom, and his brother too busy with a new wife, a new home, a new job, that neither had the time to teach him how to navigate it properly. 

He could have stayed in the Free Marches and learned from his aunt and uncle. It was not as though they'd kicked him out.

But his people needed a leader, and better a leader who did not know how one should ask a lady to dance than a leader who'd rather spend time learning that than leading. 

Balls and parties often left Teagan ill at ease. He'd spend much of the night standing by Isolde or Eamon, or if both were busy, Maric and Loghain, rather than standing alone.

But something had happened in the last three months between his brother and his king, Teagan could not say what, and the two would not speak to, or even look at, one another. 

They stood as far apart as they possibly could, Maric and Loghain taking the north east corner, and Eamon and Isolde took the south west corner. 

And, as Teagan had no idea why the two were fighting, he could not be certain standing with one party would not leave the other party to assume he agreed with the man he stood with. 

So, there were two choices. 

One, ask both men why they were fighting, and decide then who was in the right, which would likely lose him the friendship of one of them until the dispute was settled.

Or

Two: Find another person to spend the night with.

The Fereldan court, more than almost any other court in Thedas, was a court of the young. One could count on a single hand every noble forty or older among their ranks. War would do that. 

It was also diverse. There had been so few nobles after the occupation that many lands in the bannorn were left ungoverned until a proper replacement for their banns could be found. Sometimes that led to the nearest family being a minor lady in Rivain or Antiva or The Free Marches. And sometimes it led to there being no family left, and the Orlesian who'd ruled during the war was allowed to keep the property, provided they married a Fereldan woman.

Bann Jane D'Érablière's position was due to both of those things.

Her Grandfather was the bann of Cathal's Crossing. He'd fled Ferelden after it had been lost to Orlais. He'd moved to Rivain, and married into a noble family there. 

Her stepfather had ruled Cathal's Crossing during the war.

Wanting to keep his lands, he married Lady Jane's mother, a widow and the rightful heir. And, to ensure none of his subjects assumed he intended to steal the land from the girl, he adopted her as his heir. 

She had a smile like sunshine. She had deep brown skin, and brown eyes that reminded one of oak. Her hair was black and worn in beautiful braids.

She wore a bright yellow gown that flattered her figure.

And Teagan was utterly in love.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another Ball chapter. Yet again, my attempts at Teagan's POV.

The facts, as far as Teagan could tell were these:

One: The boy Eamon had been caring for, an orphan boy called Alistair, had disappeared from Eamon's estate roughly four months before.

Two: The boy looked very similar to how Cailan had looked as a baby, aside from his coloration.

Three: The only Guerrin feature Cailan had of his mother's was his smile. Otherwise, the boy was very much his father's son.

Four: The elven mage Maric had asked to be his adviser had the same eyes as Alistair. Her's were larger, but the boy had her lashes. His eyes were the very same shade of brown.

Five: His brother and his brother in law refused to speak to each other and Eamon told every person who'd listen how terrible the new mage adviser of Maric was. How she'd likely kill anyone who dare cross her. 

Six: Eamon had mistreated Alistair while the boy was in his care.

Teagan could not pull all of these observations into a cohesive narrative, not yet, there were many pieces missing, but he could say some things.

The boy had not been a maid's son, but instead the son of King Maric and his new adviser. The two had either been lovers at one time, but were not any longer, or the two were still lovers.

King Maric and the woman, Fionne, Teagan though her name was, found out at some point that Eamon was abusing their son. 

And Eamon and Maric had a falling out.

If Maric and the woman were lovers that would certainly explain the interruption Teagan experienced during his meeting. He had no idea what that interruption had been about, but when Maric returned, his lips looked red.

If she was Maric's lover, Teagan could not see how the man could do better; the woman was quite pretty, elf or no. A bit on the short side, a bit on the thin side, if one judged her by human standards, but otherwise quite pretty. 

And she was about the right age; after all, Ferelden probably had one of the youngest courts in all of Thedas.

That was always something that struck Teagan whenever he was at a ball.

War did that, he supposed. So many had died to put Moira, and then, after her death, Maric, on the throne. His father included. 

He could count on one hand the number of nobles who were in their forties or older.

Teryna Mac Tir. That Orlesian man who'd married Branwen, Rowan's lieutenant during the rebellion; he never had learned the man's name, as he was seemingly never in Ferelden. Bann Fearchar Mac Eanraig, Eleanor's father. That was it. 

The Fereldan court was also likely more diverse than any other court. 

Many nobles had been born commoners and had married into nobility, or had won it as a prize for their service during the war. 

And, those noblemen who felt marrying common beneath them could easily marry the second daughter or son of an Antivan, or Nevarran, or Marcher or Rivaini family. He even knew one woman who'd married the son of a Magister. The lad had been born without the curse of magic in his blood, but still, the idea stunned Teagan. A Magister's son.. 

And now an elf in Maric's inner circle. It was an exciting time to be alive. 

“Though, the last time an elf was in Maric's inner circle was during the War, and that had cost Father his life,” a little voice in his head that sounded like Teagan's uncle, reminded him. 

He physically raised a hand to swat the voice away.

Isolde moved to avoid his hand.

“Teagan, whatever are you doing?” she demanded. 

“I thought I saw a fly,” Teagan lied.

“A fly?” Eamon asked. He looked away from Isolde for the first time in the entire carriage ride, and looked at Teagan.

“Yes. Didn't you see it?”

“I must not have,” Eamon said. 

The carriage fell quiet.

Both Eamon and Isolde were dressed exceptionally well. 

Eamon wore a brocade purple paisley tunic and brown trousers. He wore fine boots of drakeskin with golden buckles that seemed to gleam. He wore a livery collar as well, and a fine circlet of gold. 

Isolde, too, looked like a rather attractive peacock. Her petticoat was made of satin, in two shades of purple, and her surcoat in dark teal. She'd cinched the waist of the gown twice, once with a sash of a lighter teal, and then, atop that, she wore a silver filigree belt. The dress had two sets of sleeves, one which hugged her arms, they were a sort of lime green, and the other a puff sleeve atop it, in purple. She wore a fine fox fur stole she'd pinned closed, but she'd left enough space that one could view the massive silver filigree necklace she wore. It was in the shape of a Chantry sun. On her ears, she wore massive, heavy-looking earrings of silver. On her head, a circlet of silver and emeralds.

This, too, was clearly par of their fight with Maric. Eamon was trying to show his power. 

“If that Elven harlot threatens you again,” Isolde began.

Eamon raised a hand, “She is not stupid enough to do that.” 

“Rabbits are no great shakes of brilliance. Hunters lure them into traps always, given enough carrots. Why is she an exception?”

Teagan flinched at the slur, and the comparison, but he said nothing. Neither his brother, nor Isolde noticed.

“Perhaps it would be more accurate to say Maric is smart enough to stop her from doing that.” 

Isolde opened her mouth to speak, but Teagan interrupted, “Do you know if Jane will be at the ball?”

“Jane? Which is she again?” Eamon asked.

“Baroness Jane D'Érablière,” Isolde informed him quickly.

“She prefers to be called Bann, actually,” Teagan corrected gently. “Maric allowed her to keep the property she'd been given before the war.”

“She's the Rivaini woman you find pretty? The one who punched a man at Bann Esmerelle's wedding?”

Teagan smiled at the memory. “Yes. Her.” 

“She is a firebrand, isn't she?”

“If you marry her,” Isolde said, grinning, “It would be far easier for you to find your way in Orlesian society. She comes from good stock.”

“I...don't think Jane wants to return to Orlais any time soon. But...If I do marry her, I will keep that in mind.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a scene with Anora and her father from chapter 23 that didn't quite make it in.

Three more days 

Three more days and Anora's mother would return to Gwaren.

And Anora would go with her, if her mother liked it or not. 

Cailan was no doubt still angry at her; there was truly no reason to stay in Denerim for as long as he was. 

She kicked off her warm woolen blankets, and rubbed at her eyes more roughly than was strictly necessary, and let out a yawn, and then a half-sob, as she sat up in her bed. 

In truth, she was not particularly in a mood to get out of bed. The ball the night before had been loud, and she'd snuck out of bed to watch much of it. 

But the servants, and likely Papa as well, had already begun to move the furniture from the lower level back to where it belonged, and even with the thick walls, and door of her chambers, she could still hear it, loud. 

And even if she could not, the sunlight was bright coming in through her window and she could not sleep through that. 

She pulled herself to the edge of the bed, and set her bare feet onto it, expecting it to be freezing. She was pleasantly surprised to find that it, in fact, was rather warm this morning.

She stretched and groaned and walked to the washbasin in the corner of her room. She reached a small pale cupped hand into the water, and then pulled it out, now filled with water that tried to drip through the small gaps in her fingers. She brought her hand to her face, and took a sip, then splashed her face with the remainder, and rubbed at it. 

It woke her up more than she had been, at the very least. 

She dressed herself quickly in a clean dress, grabbed a comb, a brush, and some ribbons off her dresser and walked over to the door with them and opened the door.

She walked down the staircase, searching for her Papa. 

She found him in the great hall, watching as some servants moved the large table into place. 

He did not wear his armor, but instead, a simple white shift, and leather trousers. 

He always looked so small without his armor. He was not a small man, nearly six and a half feet, muscular and broad, but without that cage of steel around him he looked it.

He noticed her immediately, and gave her a smile.

Anora could not help but smile back. “Good morning Papa,” she greeted.

“Good morning,” he greeted back quietly.

She walked towards him, holding out the hairbrush. 

Her Papa took it, and sat down on one of the benches against the wall. 

Anora placed the comb and the ribbons next to him, and then sat at his feet. 

Gently, he began to remove each of the rag-curls she wore in her hair, the tight ringlets coming free with a 'sproing' Anora could not help but smile to herself at. 

After a few moments of silence Anora spoke. 

“When Mother returns to Gwaren, I'd like to go with her,” Anora said.

Her Papa stopped for a moment, hesitated, then returned to his task. “Your mother...” he took a breath, “Will not be returning to Gwaren. We have decided it would be best, for all of us, if she were to stay here, with you and I.”

“Oh,” Anora said softly. 

“Is something the matter?” 

His hands were always so gentle when he did her hair. She wondered if the men and women who served under him during the war would be confused by him now; gently removing small bits of cloth from his daughter's hair with careful deft fingers.

“No,” she lied. She couldn't tell if he believed her or not, so she quickly added, a lie, though, an honest one, one which had been gnawing at her for days, “Cailan isn't talking to me. I just wanted to go away.”

“What did he do?”

Anora smoothed at her pale yellow dress and frowned at the floor peeking through gap between her crossed legs. “He got mad at me.”

“For?”

She shrugged. “I told him...Fiona didn't love him,” she said, growing quieter as she said the last bit of the sentence.

Her father did not say a word. He set the hairbrush down on the bench beside him, and began to braid a portion of her hair from the front and left side of her face.

Her cheeks began to burn as she heard the deafening silence from her father. “I said I was sorry, but he got angry and he wouldn't listen and...” she steeled herself, to keep from crying over it. She shifted in her seat, and her father loosed her hair to let her adjust. She pulled her knees close to her chest, and wrapped her arms across them. She swallowed. “He hates me,” she whispered.

Again, he did not speak. She felt tears begin to fall from her eyes and she began to cry. He hated her too, it seemed. Her cheeks felt hot, her throat tight. Her voice broke as she spoke again. “He hates me, Papa.”

Her father finished the braid and set it down on Anora's shoulder, giving said shoulder a gentle pat. “Anora, he does not hate you.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a chapter about Maric and Ailis discussing Maric's marriage to Fiona, intended to be used in Chapter 23. I ended up not using it because it didn't fit what I was going for.
> 
> I might come back and use it, or part of it, for a later chapter.

The palace chapel offered Maric as much succor and safe-harbor as any chantry in Thedas filled with priestesses might.

Even with the Orlesian opulence the Usurper built it with, it still felt like...like coming home every time he entered, the gold and the mosaic tiled floor, and the ever-watching eyes of the statue of Andraste-the-Warrior. 

He walked in slowly. There was a tension here today. Or perhaps the tension was within himself. He felt like he could not breathe as Andraste looked upon him, but he forced himself to anyway. 

He walked past the tall statue that took up most of the aisle, and walked to the first pew on the right.

It was then he noticed he was not alone.

Ailis stood near the front of the of the chapel, stoking the pyre. She turned at the sound of his footsteps. 

“If you wish to be alone, your Majesty, I will leave.” 

Maric shook his head and he swallowed, “No, I...think it's better you stay.” 

She placed the last bit of wood she'd been feeding the pyre onto it and turned to him. There was concern on her motherly face. “Is there something wrong?”

Maric sat down in the pew as she asked, leaving enough space near the aisle for her to sit beside him if she chose.

“Does the Chant of Light say if it is wrong...” He trailed off, and took a breath. “One of Andraste's daughters married a Magister, did she not?”

Ailis laughed, but it was a tight, weak thing which ended with a cough before she spoke again. “She fell in love with one. Ran off with one, but it is not clear if she married him. The histories of Andraste's life are murky, as are the histories of the lives of her children. There is much myth surrounding her, as you no doubt understand.” 

The corners of Maric's lips twitched upwards in a tense, awkward smile. “My mother is dead not even twenty years, and already she is the stuff of legends. I can...very much understand.” 

Ailis crossed the room, the skirts of her scarlet, pink, and golden robes moving as she did. She sat down on the pew next to him, and put a hand on his shoulder.

“You are considering ending things with Alistair's mother?”

Maric was silent for almost a minute, so silent he could hear the pyre crackle, and hear his own breathing. “I am considering beginning things with her,” one breath. Two, a sigh,“I asked her to marry me months ago, and she...Last night, she agreed.” 

Ailis' silence matched his own. 

“Oh,” she said. 

He could see the confusion furrow her brow, the momentary tensing and relaxing of her fingers as she smoothed her skirts absently. There was something in her face he could not name, but anger came the closest, but she tried to hide this. 

“Are you angry because she is a mage?” 

Ailis gave him another tight smile and a pat on the shoulder. “I am not angry. Simply...concerned,” she paused for a few moments, finding the words, “You are a good man, and I am fearful that, perhaps, you are making this choice out of a sense of obligation. That you have not considered what this will do.”

Maric nodded. “I haven't. She has. She has given up so much to care for our son, to be here with me.”

“I am sure having food to eat, a bed to sleep in, fine clothes to wear, all of these are recompense enough. If she is not happy with them-” Ailis said. Maric cut her off. 

“They're not. She's given up nearly all she loves because she loves Alistair and she loves me. She's given up her homeland, and her work, and most of her friends... She's sacrificed so much. She's had so little in life before this. And she still gave it up. The least I can do is marry her. Offer her the little protection I can from the templars. From the chantry. Offer her a chance to...Have a life.” 

“The chantry is not the enemy, Maric,” Ailis said gently. “They wish to protect people. That is all.” 

“No. They aren't the enemy,” he agreed, sighing, “But...Did you see Fiona? When she came back from the Circle? She'd been so...” He shook his head, then glanced around, searching for the words. “The Chantry is not the enemy, but they don't make things pleasant for her either. And...I want her to have the best life she can...I love her.”

There was quiet for nearly five minutes as they sat there. Maric watched the pyre. Studied it. The way the flames flickered and moved and danced. 

“How do you plan to marry her?” Ailis asked, rubbing a withered hand across her eyes.

“What do you mean?” 

“There are few in the Chantry who would marry a mage to anyone. Some, of course, but few. Even fewer would marry a mage to a King. And even fewer still who would marry an elf to any human.”

Maric frowned, moved in his seat, forced a breath into his lungs, and then let it out with a sigh, rubbing a hand across his face. “I will petition the Grand Cleric to allow me to marry Fiona. And, I hope, she will allow it.” He paused for a moment, “Do you...Would you...Does it bother you? That she is a mage?”

“I am more...offended that she is an elf, in truth. One of Andraste's own daughters married a magister, as you said. But...a human with an elf...That is not in the Chant.”

“What of Andraste and Shartan?” 

Ailis laughed, and it lessened the tension slightly. “That is heresy. A legend; though a popular one. I dare say nearly as popular as the one about Andraste owning a mabari.”

“What if it wasn't? If it was found tomorrow to be the truth?”

Ailis shifted and considered, then sighed. “I...will have to think on this, your Majesty,” she rose from the pews and stood. “I have much to consider.” 

She walked out of the palace chapel, leaving Maric alone. 

He leaned forward, shifting in his seat, crossed his arms across his chest. Then, he closed his eyes and began to pray.


End file.
